


What Can the Harvest Hope For?

by NotJustFeet



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Near Death Experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:20:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotJustFeet/pseuds/NotJustFeet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times it wasn't the end, and one time, it might have been</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clint

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on AvengerKink. Title is taken from a quote in "Reaper Man"

It’s not often you have a building fall on your head, Clint thinks woozily. Normally he’s up on the roof (occasionally falling off), but this time, he’s inside. Iron Man had said there were still life signs in this building, and Hawkeye was the nearest mostly free asset. The building was still mostly untouched by the battle, so it would be a simple out and in job.

That was before the Hulk.

It’s not too bad at the moment, the debris seems to have settled, and Clint is wedged into a nice little crawl space. It’s pitch black in here. The little girl is cuddled into his chest, fingers clenched tight into the leather of his uniform. All he has to do is wait.

He hopes that the ominous creaking overhead is Thor digging him out, not the Hulk.

IS THE CHILD ALRIGHT?

It’s a voice, although it’s not a voice. Somehow, if a grave could talk, this would be it. And there is no echo to it, as there should be in this confined space.

“Just shaken up.” Clint answers, and then wonders why he did. He’d check for a head injury, but doesn’t want to risk moving. There is the rustle of fabric, and white dances across his vision for a second, before it it gone again.

AH. NEAR-HAWKEYE EXPERIENCE.

Clint huffs out a laugh that makes something in his chest hurt.

“There’s many that would kill to be in your place right now. Well, obviously not stuck under a building. Care to cuddle for warmth?”

It’s then that he realises that he can only hear the breathing of himself, and the small girl in this enclosed space. The voice apparently doesn’t need to breath.

And then a shaft of sunlight streams in as a section of rock is removed.

“Shield Brother!” Thor declares cheerfully, and that flicker of black is gone.

Clint turns out to have a slight case of concussion from suddenly falling buildings, and so he doesn’t mention anything about the voice.


	2. Natasha

The only expression of feeling that Natasha allows herself is to grind her heel into her tormentors groin. She’s tired of being kidnapped, tired of being seen as the easy target because she is female. She’s the Black Widow, for fuck’s sake, she didn’t earn that nickname by petting fluffy kittens!

She supposes that the gender discrimination works in her favour sometimes. The idiot lying on the floor thought that he would have a little fun with her. At least it was one more asshat removed from the genepool.

She unlocks her cell door, and steps outside, closing and locking it behind her. They didn’t even bother to properly search her, and that’s why when she senses someone standing behind her, she turns and throws a knife at them.

It’s a good throw, just a little short of where she intended it to go. It takes the man in the soft hollow between the cervical vertebrae, instead of in his throat, at the esophagus.

Well, that’s where it should have gone.

NICE THROW

Natasha has seen some strange things in her years, stranger since she signed up with SHIELD, but a glowing-blue eyed skeleton is quite high up the list. It? He? is standing there, her knife sticking out of his robe, and he’s trying to take it out without tearing the robe even more.

Anyway, no matter what he is at the moment, he’s not trying to kill her, so Natasha settles for dealing with those who are, as three thugs come barrelling around the corner. They aren’t much trouble to her, even with their AK-47’s.

When all three are down, one still groaning, she turns to where the skeleton was, and finds him still there, bony fingers stretching out a bullet hole in his robe.

ALBERT DOES NOT LIKE SEWING.

“What the hell are you?” she was going to ask ‘who’, but ‘what’ seems more appropriate.

YOU ARE HAVING A NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE. YOU ARE ANGRY AND HURT AND SO CAN SEE THINGS YOU NORMALLY WOULD NOT. WOULD YOU KINDLY REMOVE YOUR KNIFE FROM ME?

Mutely, Natasha did so with a deft flick. After all, one more knife would be useful. She resolved to ignore the disturbing apparition. This wasn’t a near death experience, this was just another day on the job. Unfortunately, no one had told the apparition that she was ignoring him.

IT USED TO BE PEOPLE JUST DIED WHEN THEY DIED. NOW WE HAVE TEMPORAL FLUX, FREE WILL, AND THE INTEGRITY OF THE SPACE TIME CONTINUUM. ALFRED DESPAIRS OF MY SCHEDULE.

By all indications, she was the only one who could see the apparition, The guard charged past the skeleton obliviously, and ran straight into a spinning kick from Natasha that threw him headfirst into a wall.

IT IS ALMOST AS BAD AS THE RITE OF ASHK-ENTE. ONE MOMENT I AM IN KLATCH, THE NEXT I AM IN ANKH-MORPORK, THEN DRAGGED HERE. BUT NEVER LET IT BE SAID THAT I DO NOT DO MY DUTY.

Natasha pretends that she doesn’t see the skeleton stick out one white foot and trip the next idiot who runs past him blindly. For a figment of her imagination/drug induced hallucination/eldritch abomination, he’s actually quite personable.

She’s still ignoring him though. She ignores him as she retrieves her equipment from a shabby room, she ignores the way he examines a keyboard while she hacks into their security systems and shuts it down. By the time she finishes contacting the Helicarrier to arrange a pickup, the skeleton is gone.

She leaves him out of her report.


	3. Coulson

He always knew that he’d die doing his job.

He knew that he would never get a formal deathbed, a chance to say goodbye to all his loved ones. But having Fury here is nearly as good. Over the roar in his head, Coulson can just about hear Fury ordering the medics to do something. But it’s faint, it’s distant.

There is something taking shape in the air behind the SHIELD Director. Coulson wonders if it’s Loki, coming back for another go, but that thought doesn’t bother him at all. Neither does the fact that a skeleton is now looking at him.

“Nice trick,” Coulson says, and it;s easy to talk now. There is no pain, there are no feelings to get in the way. And there is his body lying at his feet. Coulson doesn’t even remember standing. He would find the whole thing strange, but it looks like he’s beyond feeling now.

There is a haphazard piece of white stitching on the black robe, and Coulson finds himself looking at it curiously.

THIS IS NOT RIGHT the skeleton seemed as nonplussed as a skeleton can be, reaching into his robe and pulling out what looked like an oversized hourglass. There is still sand in the top bulb, and it trickles through to the bottom one slowly. He shakes it gently, holding it up to where his ear should be. The expression never changes, but Coulson is sure that the skeleton is radiating satisfaction.

Coulson is a little lost for words. ‘Am I dead?’ seems a little like stating the obvious, and for all he knows, skeletons routinely make a point of collecting the dead. He settles for looking stoic and staying silent.

The feelings come back with a rush, as he feels himself falling. Flesh surrounds him again, flesh envelops him, and he tries to catch his breath through the pain. Fire licks through him, and the medics above call out to each other.

There is a supernova flare in the eyes of the skeleton as he winks at Coulson, before he is not there again. And was never there.


	4. Clint & Natasha

There is silence over the comms now as Hawkeye takes up his position on the warehouse roof. He can almost feel the sulking of his handler on the other end.

Sometimes Clint tries to rile Coulson just to get the other man to react. Sometimes Clint is just trying to get a smile out of him. THis morning, though, there was nothing joking about their encounter. The Black Widow had been causing problems. SHIELD, for the good of the people, wanted her removed. Hawkeye was the one assigned.

Assassinations were nothing new to him. But the more he looked at the sparse dossier, the more uneasy he grew.

“Tell me why SHIELD wants her dead?” he demanded abruptly.

There was silence for five minutes. Clint counted the time by his heartbeat, meticulously checking his quiver and his bow. He kept himself low, and his movements slow and precise.

YOU READ THE BRIEFING? comes the voice. There must be static in the air, or the piece of crap earpiece is failing, because the voice is distorted. Clint doesn’t care.

“Yeah, I read the fucking briefing. Big words, no content.”

WHY DO YOU NOT WANT TO KILL THIS WOMAN?

“Christ, can’t you even call her by name?” and Clint is suddenly furious again.

YOU ARE TAKING THIS PERSONALLY, HAWKEYE. WHY SHOULD ONE WOMAN NOT DIE IN ORDER THAT OTHERS BE SAVED? FOR THE GREATER GOOD?

“There is no greater good,” Clint mutters under his breath. “I have my reasons, alright?” he says louder.

REASONS?

This time its Clint was doesn’t answer for three minutes. He’s half in the sniper’s mindset by now, breathing calmly. He can feel the silence of his handler sucking at him, wanting answers.

“There but for the grace of God, go I,” he finally says.

YOU SEE YOURSELF?

“SHIELD gave me a choice when I had none. Why should I kill her, instead of giving her the same choice. You know she’d be an asset to SHIELD.”

I BELIEVE THAT IS NOT YOUR CALL TO MAKE, CORRECT?

The words burn on the tip of Clint’s tongue, but Black Widow walks into view beneath him.

She’s good, checking every angle, every diagonal, moving in an almost dance step. Hawkeye can see her tense muscles, twitching in anticipation of violence.

“I can’t do it, Coulson,” he says though a suddenly dry mouth.

YOU ARE A GOOD MAN, CLINTON BARTON. YOU HAVE A GOOD HEART AS THEY SAY. MAKE YOUR CHOICE, TIME IS PASSING.

As Black Widow stepped into a warehouse to meet her contact (who wouldn’t be there by previous arrangement), Hawkeye tore free a piece of his white sock. Lacking a pen, he grimaced and used an arrowhead to nick his skin.

The message was simple.

**Could kill you. Won’t. Drinks at 7 to talk?**

Wrapping the fabric around the arrow, he adjusted for the weight, nocked, drew and loosed as Black Widow exited the warehouse.

The arrow thrummed past her face, sinking deep into the rotting wood of the wall. The sock message fell free and Widow caught it as she dove for cover.

There was silence. Hawkeye tried to track Widow as she moved from cover to cover, but lost her among a maze of shipping containers.

Finally, a reply echoed back from the ground, direction altered by the empty, echoing metal. Clint admired her strategy.

“Hotel Meridia. No tricks.”

“Well, that was hopeful,” Clint whispered. “Barton extracting,” and he reached up a slow hand to remove his earpiece, only for his questing fingers to find skin.

There was no earpiece.


	5. Clint, Coulson & Natasha

Budapest.

It was a beautiful city when you weren’t running for your life.

“I can’t believe he’s monologuing!” Hawkeye said as he threw an exploding arrow back into the horde of scaled creatures pursuing them.

Coulson, barely a hair out of place, pursed his lips. “Some people are capable of multi-tasking, Agent Barton.”

"Mad scientists should spend their time cackling insanely, and then monologuing!"

"At least he's giving us all the evidence we need," Natasha said clinically as she decapitated the creature that outdistanced the rest of the pack.

OH. IT IS YOU THREE. I AM WONDERING IF ONE OF YOU IS THIS WORLDS EQUIVALENT OF RINCEWIND, OR PERHAPS SIR SAMUEL. IT MAY EXPLAIN WHY I FIND MYSELF HERE YET AGAIN.

"Less talking, more running!" came from Clint.

"We're not going to lose them this way," Coulson said.

"Into the river!" Natasha decided, and suited actions to words by vaulting over the railing and arcing with perfect form into the Danube.

"Canonball!" Clint yelled. There was a suspicion of a chuckle from Coulson as he followed the pair.

The mad scientists transitioned into the appropriate cackles as he urged his ‘pretties’ to head for the nearest bridge.

The Danube was, like most rivers, wet. It was also cold. Swimming from one side to the other at night wasn’t a fun occupation.

YOU ARE ALL DOING RATHER WELL.

“Less chatter from the peanut gallery,” Clint spluttered through a mouthful of water.

“I don’t recall the Danube being famous for its hallucinogenic properties,” Coulson said, breast-stroking neatly.

“There is no skeleton riding a horse, there is no skeleton riding a horse,” and Natasha timed her words to her crawl.

Finally, dripping wet and shivering in the cold air, the three agents pulled themselves up onto the far shore.

The horse tried to stick its muzzle in Clint’s pockets.

“Hey, molesting horse, knock it off!” and Clint danced away.

HE SMELLS THE SUGAR IN YOUR POCKET.

“It was for later, okay,” Clint defended himself as he pulled out a soggy napkin containing several partially dissolved sugar lumps. This made Binky very happy. Clint had a new friend.

“You can’t be real,” Natasha said flatly.

I THINK, THEREFORE I AM. Death replied. ONE OF YOUR PHILOSOPHERS SAID THAT. he added helpfully. OR PERHAPS IT SHOULD BE YOU THINK, THEREFORE I AM.

“Our minds made you?” Coulson asked.

IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING. USUALLY YOU CANNOT SEE ME. IN FACT...

What he was about to say was lost as he faded from sight. Although he didn’t so much as fade as suddenly the background to him became the foreground to the place he was not. Natasha shook her head, damp red tendrils flailing.

“This didn’t happen,” she said.

Coulson still told Fury.


	6. Death

The building was empty. No hostages, no captors, nothing. Just dusty corridors. The children had been ushered in here at gunpoint, and they had not left by the doors. There had been no gunshots, and SHIELD were sure that there had been no magical emissions.

Natasha took point, Coulson in the middle,and Hawkeye on rear guard.

Thor had not returned from his most recent visit to Asgard. Iron Man was disarming a bomb, while Captain America kept the Hulk occupied smashing HYDRA forces. The three of them were the only ones available.

They had been following the footprints in the dust, but one of the captors had been thoughtful enough, and had started sweeping the dust to conceal the tracks. The broad strokes followed no pattern, and now dust motes danced in the air.

Their room by room search was thorough, but slow. They had covered the first three floors, and were starting on the fourth. The first room they entered was empty, but the second.

He stood there, his blue eyes glowing bright. His robe was marred only by the patch of white stitching, and Natasha wondered why she hadn’t realised it before. He held a scythe in one hand, and in the palm of the other he balanced three hourglasses. Coulson looked at the slowly diminishing sand, and felt his breathing catch. Behind him, flames blossomed in the air, sudden heat sucking all the oxygen to build it higher. Clint didn’t need to hear him speak to know those leaden tones.

This was Death.

Time slowed to a crawl as each grain of sand fell in the hourglasses. With each heartbeat another fell, all three synchronised to the same pattern. The fireball roared silently, filling the room. Death did not flinch, did not show any signs of knowing the power that was unleashed behind him.

It had been a trap, a lethal one, and they had walked right into it.

There were very few grains left in the top bulbs now.

Clint twisted to the side, moving in slow motion, as if wading through treacle. He was not trying to run, he knew that there was no point. This was not him giving up, this was him finally accepting the facts for what they were. This was real, and this was the end. And he would die in the arms of his friends.

Natasha turned her back to the flames, her eyes wide. She would not watch her death approaching her. She was no coward, but she didn’t need to see the flames that would scorch her. She prefered to face the two people who had given her back her life, and given her the love and the passion that she thought she would never have.

Coulson looked Death in the face, and smiled, welcoming an old friend.

The last grain fell. They hung in the empty space, the narrow waist between the top and bottom. They danced, twirling in their own private wind. And the fireball raced forward, engulfing the three as they stood together..

Death laughed, and his cobalt blue eyes flared brighter and brighter.

With no motion, the hourglasses rose from his bony palm, and turned over.

WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR, IF NOT THE CARE OF THE REAPER MAN?

Their hearts beat again, their breath echoed in their chest. The fireball was burnt out, only the scorch marks on the walls and floor a testament to its passage.

The three stood there, unmarked, unharmed, holding tightly to each other. And the laughter of Death echoed in their hearts and in their heads. They were alive.

The hostage takers, who thought they were secure in their underground bunker, were not so lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death's only line in this chapter is taken from "Reaper Man", during the conversation with Azrael. I thought that it fitted well here.


End file.
